


i shook his hand (and tore my heart in sunder)

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Frottage, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Reunion Sex, Semi-Public Sex, assumes a previously Established Relationship, but it's depressing, hermann pining for Love and Affection, minor Uprising spoilers, minor exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 03:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14299686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Five things Hermann Gottlieb notices upon seeing Newton Geiszler again.





	i shook his hand (and tore my heart in sunder)

**Author's Note:**

> you: but there's already so much PR:U newt/hermann angst  
> me, a monster who thrives on sadness, already whipping open my google docs: heuehuheuuheheuue

Newton’s, well—he’s changed, over the years. That’s the first thing Hermann notices; how he’s traded perpetual disarray and chaotic energy for suits and the slick, confident demeanor of a CEO. There’s a cognitive dissonance between the Newton of ten years ago and the Newton who stepped out of a helicopter and looked at Hermann with a disdain Hermann could feel behind the sunglasses: Hermann can’t very well imagine this Newton rolling up his (expensive) sleeves and digging around extraterrestrial guts and entrails, or mixing Mountain Dew energy drinks with black coffee at four in the morning and calling it a _café à Geiszler_ , or waking up in bed next to Hermann with messy hair and sunlight on his skin—but that’s the past. This is the now. And this is Newton, for better or for worse.

He brings Newton to his lab after their awkward reunion at the landing pad (to think he’d been fully expecting—a _hug_ , at the very least, after their past) and tries not to feel self-conscious about the state of it. Aside from his own papers and personal artifacts cluttering up the space, he has a good chunk of Newton’s, too. Small things that got mixed up in the move from their lab to their—Hermann’s—flat before Newton—well. Some of Newton’s old grad school work that Hermann’s, frankly, not quite clear on how it ended up in their old lab in the first place; a kaiju action figure; messages on old sticky notes that Newton used to leave on Hermann’s chalkboard (everything from _gone to get us lunch_ to _your sweater looks cute today_ ). (Bringing those, Hermann will admit to himself, was an intentional choice.)

(If Newton notices the photograph of the two of them Hermann left out atop some research in a fit of melancholy, he doesn’t say anything, for which Hermann is grateful.)

He’s different, and Hermann knows this, he knew before Newton stepped out of the helicopter, he knew as far back as when Newton’s replies to his emails went from daily to weekly to monthly to nonexistent, but he can’t help but feel—

“You won’t help me?” he says, and he looks ridiculous, foolish, he supposes, an old man clutching at singed papers and a dead history compared to Newton (sleek and stylish and disdainful and God, still so handsome, still able to make Hermann’s heart flutter).

(That’s the second thing he noticed: how seeing Newton again is like falling in love with him for the first time.)

(Why is he treating Hermann _so_ —?)

(Who the hell is Alice? Newton never—)

“I,” he begins, “I still—” desperate, desperate for Newton to stay, to listen, to tell him why he _left_ , and Newton pauses, and Hermann pauses, because he’s not sure how he intended to end that sentence. He hosts a litany of half-formed thoughts, and he runs through them like a checklist in the split second he has before Newton’s interest will wane: he still values Newton’s input, he still doesn’t understand why Newton left, (he still gets nightmares, nightmares from their drift, blue-tainted and sublime, but he thinks they’d be easier if Newton was there?), he still loves him, he still loves him, (he still gets nightmares), he still loves him. He thinks Newton understands everything, can watch it all unfolding internally within Hermann, because something flickers across his face and he’s nodding his head towards Hermann’s office.

“Privacy,” he says.

The walls are glass but the door that leads to the lab where Hermann’s research team mills about has a lock, so he clicks it behind them after he leads Newton back up the stairs. He’s not quite sure why Newton wants privacy but if he’s going to give Hermann _answers_ then he’ll give him this in return, by God, and—Newton’s hands are on his waist before Hermann can even turn around, and his lips are at the back of his neck, and he’s pressing up against Hermann’s back and Hermann very nearly drops his cane.

“Newton,” he stutters out, because he hoped, yes, but he didn’t _expect_ , “w-what are you—?”

“Exactly what you’ve wanted me to do,” Newton says, lowly in his ear, “since I got here.”

(And, well, that’s the third thing that Hermann noticed, wasn’t it: how much he still wants Newton, after all this time, maybe even _more_ now, how much he wants his mouth, his hands, how much he wants to take him to bed and take him apart and _be_ taken apart in return.)

Newton grinds his hips forward and runs one hand up and down the length of Hermann’s chest, inquisitive, relearning the curves and grooves, and then untucks Hermann’s button-down and slides his hand up and up smooth skin instead. Hermann’s eyes flutter shut and leans backwards, minutely, before he remembers _where they are_. “Not in the lab,” he says, and then corrects himself (because old habits have a tendency to die hard, don’t they?), “not in _my_ lab.”

Anyone could walk in, anyone could walk _by_ , any number of high-ranking PPDC officials, but Newton is insistent and Hermann—Hermann _missed_ him. So: he doesn’t protest when Newton ignores him and starts tugging open his buttons, cups him through his trousers, when he spins Hermann around and pushes him against the door to kiss him rough and deep and distinctly un-Newton-like.

Newton bites on Hermann’s lower lip, sucks it between his, runs his tongue along the tiny punctures his teeth left behind, and Hermann keens because Newton is all he can see and feel, and it’s been _so long_. He hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to want Newton Geiszler, how could he, but he’s forgotten what it’s like to want him this _badly_. He drops his cane to the ground and clings to Newton’s hips, angling their bodies closer, tighter, and Newton laughs—a bit cruelly—into his mouth, but he’s hard, too, and that feels like a private victory.

Hermann breaks off with a gasp, but Newton is relentless, rubbing up against him and sucking bruising kisses into his neck, and the drag of his stubble is too good, too much, and Hermann needs—he’s not sure what he needs. He needs Newton to touch him, to kiss him; he needs to know Newton still loves Hermann like Hermann still loves Newton.

“Newton,” he murmurs, pressing a hand gently to the small of Newton’s back, and he could say it now—I still love you, do you—?—but Newton carries on marking him up and messing about with his buttons as if he hasn’t heard. (Hermann pretends it doesn’t sting when Newton, so, so casually, shrugs off his touch.)

Newton pulls away when he’s got Hermann’s shirt completely undone, grinning, smug, but it doesn’t really stretch to his eyes. “Lookin’ good, bud,” he says, giving him an exaggerated once-over and then leaning in to nip at Hermann’s mouth again. Hermann tries to chase after the kiss, but Newton slides a hand up his jaw and holds him in place; it’s uncharacteristic of him, a bit aggressive.

It makes Hermann moan helplessly.

“ _Newton_ ,” he repeats, and Newton looks thoughtful, analytical. As if he’s filing away the very physiological responses Hermann’s having to his touch as data, as if Hermann’s one of his specimens he used to stab into some decade ago in Hong Kong. He grips Hermann’s chin a bit tighter, angles his head up—up, because all the height Hermann has on Newton is lost in the way Hermann’s slumped against the door of his office—with the same aggression. Maybe a bit more. Hermann chokes back another moan; he’s not sure he could break free even if he wanted to.

“Please,” he says, voice cracking from desire, embarrassment, but it's been so very  _long_ , “touch me, I—”

Newton never manhandled—an unfortunate word, but it’s what applies—him before, nor did Hermann Newton, but Newton’s not the Newton of ten years ago so he kisses Hermann again, hungrily, the one hand still clamped around around his jaw, and seizes the waistband of Hermann’s slacks with the other and pulls him forward. Hermann stumbles, attempting to brace himself on the cane that’s not there, but Newton has the decency to catch him, at least, and then— _oh_ —he’s in Newton’s arms, and Newton’s forcing his mouth open with his tongue, and he’s dragging Hermann over to his desk and hoisting him, impatiently, up on the edge.

“I have—papers,” Hermann gasps as Newton bites down his neck, fumbles with the buttons on Hermann’s slacks, “important papers on here— _oh_ , oh, Newton—I can’t—”

“Just push them off or something,” Newton huffs, and he starts to do just that. Pages covered in unmodified prototypes of Hermann’s old breach equation (why _does_ he still have those) and some of his newer work on the rocket fuel (that was why he brought Newton here in the first place, wasn’t it?) slide to the floor with a thud and go scattering. “See,” Newton continues, and he starts pressing Hermann on his back, still so _impatient_ , “easy.”

Hermann would like to argue, thinks he should argue, but Newt’s shrugging off his expensive jacket and draping it carefully on the back of Hermann’s chair and slipping off his shoes (Hermann misses the old scuffed combat boots, even misses nearly tripping over them in the middle of the night when Newton would leave them lying, carelessly, in the middle of the hallway) and all he can think of is how much he desires Newton.

Newton goes to shove more papers—more _important_ papers—off Hermann’s desk to make room for himself when he catches sight of the photograph of them, laying out atop a stack of books, and something flickers in his eyes and he freezes. For a moment, Hermann can imagine Newton isn’t all cold edges, now, that the ten years hasn’t quashed _all_ softness from his sweet, lovely Newton, but the moment passes, and the corner of Newton’s mouth curls up unkindly. “You need to get out more, man,” he says, and pushes the entire stack to the floor too.

It’s—foolish, once more, of Hermann, but it takes a conscious effort to stave off tears. Newton is being cruel, unnecessarily cruel, but his kiss is lingering on Hermann’s lips and he’s undressing himself in Hermann’s office in front of him so he must still—? _Do you still love me_ , he thinks again, but the question is lost on his tongue the moment Newton unbuttons his shirt and there’s all that _color_ on display. He’s forgotten how vibrant Newton’s tattoos are—how wonderful they are, really—and he’s forgotten how it feels to have Newton squirming under him while he kisses down and down over them.

(The fourth thing: not just cognitive dissonance between the man of ten years ago and the man of now, but cognitive dissonance between intimacy. How does one go from knowing every lewd detail, every innermost thought of another human being to facing them once more as a practical stranger?)

Before Hermann can chase and lose himself in memory, Newton is climbing onto the desk with him, over top of him, swinging his legs up to bracket Hermann’s and then straddling him. He steals another harsh kiss, biting hard enough into Hermann’s lip to draw blood, and grinds his hips down again, and Hermann reciprocates frantically. He’s aware, distantly, that they are _still_ more or less in plain view of anyone who chooses to stop in at the office of professional and esteemed Dr. Gottlieb, but the thought (mortifyingly enough) only arouses him further: they’d know he was Newton’s, and Newton was his, and that ten years separation couldn’t extinguish their spark. Ten years! Ten years since he’s held Newton—it’s necessary, crucial, that Newton _touch_ him, so he slides his hands up the warm skin of Newton’s ribs (he’s still soft in the stomach, and it pleases Hermann) and breathes “ _More_ ,” against his lips.

Newton laughs again, but he doesn’t tease and sets right to work in tugging down both of their slacks and briefs. Briefs, plural, yes, because Newton wears briefs, now—it’s enough to make Hermann want to collapse into hysterics. (The Newton of ten years ago wore exclusively kitschy boxer-shorts, patterned in everything from glow-in-the-dark UFOs to dinosaurs. And now: plain, solid-color briefs.) He hitches up Hermann’s good leg high, wraps it around his waist, slots their hips together, and—it’s electricity when their cocks brush, electricity when Newton steals his moan and the breath from his lungs and swallows both down with another wet, messy kiss, electricity when Newton _sucks_ on his tongue.

Newton ruts against his thigh and slides his lips down Hermann’s jawline again, biting and panting harshly. “How long has it been, Hermann?” he says, low in his ear again, low and still so unkind, and Hermann flushes with embarrassment once more (so _cruel_ ). “Have you been waiting for me all this time?”

He does not want to tell Newton the truth: he does not want to tell Newton that Newton broke his heart the day he left their flat without so much as a note on the counter (he used to leave sticky notes on Hermann’s chalkboard when he left the lab for five minutes), that he drank, for a while, once the emails stopped, that he chased Newton’s ghost in daydreams and old correspondence even longer before giving up and throwing himself into his work entirely. He does not want to tell Newton that it’s been ten years since he’s been touched like this; that he’s been waiting for Newton the whole ten. He tries to kiss Newton again, instead, but Newton refuses, deliberately moves away. “Have you?” he repeats.

“Yes,” Hermann says, flushing deeper, and Newton does kiss him, then, ruts harder and faster. He slides his hand from Hermann’s leg to cup his ass instead, urges Hermann’s hips forward in the same way against Newton’s thigh, and the drag is dry and it hurts, really, but it’s _good_. “ _Yes_ ,” he repeats, a groan, and Newton shifts again, and he rolls his cock against Hermann’s, and Hermann’s hands fly back to rest loosely on Newton’s waist. “Please,” he thinks he might say, and he might say Newton’s name again, or he might just simply sob, and Newton gathers their cocks in one hand and smears precome between the heads with his thumb.

“If I had more time,” Newton says casually, jerking them off together in quick, dry, strokes, “I’d fuck you right here.” It’s sudden and _jarring_ , clinical, even, but Hermann’s mouth drops open and he arches into Newton’s grasp, and Newton must get a kick out of his reaction because he keeps talking. “Right on your desk,” Newton says, with an air of manic glee, “and I wouldn’t even stop if someone walked by. Scandal of the century. Read all about it.”

Hermann, truthfully, can’t tell if Newton is being serious or not; in the past, Newton had always been content to—well—let Hermann take the reigns. Preferred it, even. But the thought...appeals to him. Immensely. Newton holding him down on Hermann’s _own_ desk, Newton spreading his legs apart, Newton biting his shoulder and whispering in his ear and _fucking_ into him as fast and rough as possible, where anyone could come in, anyone could see him claiming Hermann as his and—Newton angles his hips _just_ so and licks a line up Hermann’s throat and Hermann comes with a shocked little whimper of Newton’s name.

Newton blinks down at him for a moment, hand stilling; Newton, of course, did not come. “You weren’t kidding about waiting,” he snorts, while Hermann breathes raggedly and feels his face heat up, and Newton runs his fingers lazily through the mess Hermann made on their stomachs. He looks thoughtfully at Hermann once more, then down at his fingers, and then brings them to Hermann’s mouth. Hermann wrinkles his nose.

“I’m not—” he begins, but then Newton prods past his lips, insistent, (impatient), and then he’s pressing his lips against Hermann’s, too, and winding his tongue around his fingers he’s pushed into Hermann’s mouth, and Hermann—well, if he were twenty years younger, he might be ready for another round at that alone, so he gives in to what Newton wants and loses himself in the bitterness and the slide of Newton’s tongue against his and feels _dirty_. He sucks on Newton’s fingers until they’re clean, until Newton pulls away to watch him do it, until he’s running his tongue across Newton’s knuckles and moaning softly (he’s putting on a bit of a show with the noises, but Newton seems to enjoy it, and oh, he wants Newton to enjoy himself) and Newton’s eyes are hooded and his breath is coming out in short bursts. His erection is digging into Hermann’s thigh.

“I want you to blow me,” Newton bursts out, and it’s so graceless, so sudden, and Hermann’s heart thuds painfully and he puts up absolutely no resistance when Newton quickly sits up and—once more—manhandles Hermann, onto the desk chair this time. (He’s being considerate, Hermann assumes, of Hermann’s leg: this is how they always did it, back all those years ago, with Hermann sitting down because Hermann can’t kneel without it hurting. Newton is still gentle, still considerate, when he wants to be. Hermann wants this to be true.)

Newton settles himself in front of Hermann’s face, legs spread apart, bottoms kicked off entirely, and Hermann wants so badly to take this slowly—so badly to feel Newton come apart under careful ministrations, so badly to make him writhe and gasp Hermann’s name—but when he presses a small kiss and a few tentative licks to the head of Newton’s cock, tasting precome, Newton huffs, threads his fingers in the hair at the back of Hermann’s head and nudges him forward. And, well—it’s what Newton wants, and what Hermann wants is just to make him happy, so he sucks in a breath, forgoes foreplay, and takes in as much of Newton’s cock as he can, hollowing his cheeks as he goes.

And it’s wonderful, it’s lovely, to have this intimacy again, and Newton tenses up and hisses “ _Fuck_ ,” above him and the fingers in Hermann’s hair tighten. Hermann slides up slowly, tracing the underside with his tongue as he goes, and then sucks softly when he reaches the head. Newton’s hips buck forwards, and Hermann sucks again; this time, Newton breathes out a little “Yeah.” When he does it again, Newton’s “ _Yeah_ ,” comes out in a high whine.

And, God, does Hermann want to hear that again, so he bobs his head once more, and sucks a little harder, a little more forcefully, and then twice more, and then Newton’s grip on his hair becomes painful and he starts thrusting shallowly into Hermann’s mouth. And—it’s not exactly a pleasant feeling, it hurts, actually, but he wants so _desperately_ to make Newton feel good, so desperately to remind Newton that Hermann knows how to make him feel good, that he takes it in stride.

(Anyone, he remembers, could walk in: anyone could see him doing this to Newton, anyone could see Newton doing this to him. The thought makes him moan, deep and filthy.)

For all Newton’s prior teasing, he doesn’t last quite so long either: Hermann only has to tease his slit once more before Newton is clutching at the back of Hermann’s head and coming with a choked groan. Hermann swallows, because Newton doesn’t really give him too much of a choice.

When Newton lets go of him, Hermann pulls off and leans back in the chair, evening out his breathing, and wonders at the mess he likely looks right now: hair mussed from Newton’s fingers, lips sore and slick, slacks around his knees. Newton doesn’t fair much better—chest heaving, eyes closed, nude save for his open button-down and dress socks—and he’s handsome and radiant and Hermann revels in the sight like a starving man. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches out and touches Newton’s knee. Newton doesn’t flinch away, like Hermann was expecting. It's a pleasant turn of events. Newton cracks his eyes open and looks at Hermann again, long, still observing, still gathering data. Hermann misses his thick glasses. Hermann misses the way his hair used to stick up in every which way. Hermann—

“I missed you,” he says, voice a little cracked, and it’s strange, how their roles have almost been reversed. Newton lived in clutter, Newton spoke whatever came to his mind the instant it came to his mind, Newton wore his heart on his sleeve with pride. (Hermann does not mind, really, being the one to bear his now; loving Newton Geiszler is the highest privilege he’s been afforded.) Newton blinks at him. “I—” Hermann forces himself onward, before his nerves can fail him, because he needs to hear Newton say it too, needs Newton to tell him why he left (did Hermann not love him _enough_?) “I love you. It hasn’t changed. I still—”

There’s a ghost of a real smile on Newton’s face, his old smile, and there’s warmth in his eyes, and his hand twitches as if he means to cover Hermann’s with it. But: the moment fades. He hardens, says nothing. Hops off the desk. Picks his slacks and tie up from the ground and begins redressing. Hermann turns, discreetly, pretending to be interested in doing up his own clothing so Newton can’t watch his face crumple.

“Hermann,” Newton begins, once he’s redressed and as coiffed as polished as before, and Hermann looks up quickly, heart rising to his throat. He smiles at Hermann, but it’s one of the cold ones. The last remnants of hope Hermann clings to fizzle out spectacularly. “Can you hand me my jacket?”

Hermann nods, numb, lifts the expensive suit coat from the back of the chair and hands it over. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else. He watches at Newton re-buttons it, adjusts the sleeves, fixes his lapel, slips his sunglasses back on.

“Talk later,” Newton says, giving a little wave, and he leaves Hermann alone in his lab.

 

(The fifth thing: having Newton back is worse, somehow, than not having him at all.)

**Author's Note:**

> someone give hermann gottlieb a hug and his husband back
> 
> title from the poem by ae housman, which was depressingly appropriate: "he would not stay for me, and who can wonder?/he would not stay for me to stand and gaze/i shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder/and went with half my life about my ways."
> 
> find me on twitter at hermanngaylieb, if you like talking about newt/hermann or talking about being sad about newt/hermann (coincidentally, my two favorite past times)


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